“He’s a good guy.”
“Then why is he shaking his ass for the scum of the private security industry?”
“See, this is why people don’t like you,” Sloan said. “You have no filter and some pretty horrible opinions. You don’t have any firsthand knowledge about SVX. Hell, they sound a lot like HERO Force.”
“Everyone’s the good guy in their own movie, Dvorak. SVX is HERO Force’s inbred cousin. They’re no better than hit men, and if your friend is working for them, you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”
“Way to consider the other side. I’m telling you, O’Neil is one of the best.”
“The best mercenary?”
Sloan sat back in his seat. “Fuck you, mercenary. He does a job for money, just like you and me.”
“Difference being, he kills people for hire, or beats the shit out of them…”
“No.”
“…or breaks their kneecaps like freaking Tony Soprano.”
“You don’t know that.”
Razorback laughed. “Of course I do. That’s why we’re having this conversation. You’re trying to convince me it’s okay for your friend to work for the bad guys. If they’re not bad, this whole conversation is moot.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you. I almost didn’t.”
The driver hit the brakes hard and rounded a hairpin turn, stopping suddenly when the road was blocked by another tree, and going around it.
“Who are we to judge?” continued Sloan. “The only difference between good guys and bad is perspective.” He gestured to the road in front of them. “For all we know, this lady we’re going to babysit is one of the bad guys, not some damsel in distress truly in need of our help.”
An image of their target flashed in Ian’s mind, her Mexican driver’s license blown up on the screen at headquarters. She was pretty, with long brown hair and green eyes framed by arched brows, her shapely lips made smart by the crooked smile that played across them.
The car stopped abruptly. Two trees crisscrossed in the road. The driver launched into rapid-fire Spanish.
“You can drop us off here,” Razorback answered in the same tongue. Sloan eyed him curiously. “I’m Puerto Rican,” Razorback said. “They have black people, too.”
“I know that. Of course they do.”
Razorback shook his head.
“What?” asked Sloan. “I’m Polish. People think I’m stupid. At least people think you’ve got a big dick.”
“I do have a big dick, and so far I think you’re pretty fucking stupid. Dvorak isn’t even a Polish name.”
“Sloan Nowak-Dvorak. It’s hyphenated.”
Now Razorback laughed. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.”
“You’re right. You do sound like a dumb ass.”
The cab stopped. The rain was coming down so hard it was difficult to see, and Ian pulled a Knicks baseball cap from his bag to keep the water out of his eyes. The street was narrow and paved with bricks, brightly colored flags hanging from lines overhead like wet towels on a clothesline, giving the street a drowned, depressed look even in the darkness. Palm trees were broken, the awkward angles of their fronds speaking to the recent tropical storm.
A sign by the road readPedazo de Cielowith an arrow. “A slice of heaven right here in the middle of hell,” grumbled Razorback. Jacqueline Desjardins owned the place, which was the second and last piece of information Moto had found on their mystery woman.
You’ll find out soon enough.
And he would have to be nice.
